History vs Nostalgia and things that make you go Hmm

History is, in it's purest sense, a recording and recounting of events that happened in the past. Nostalgia is different. Nostalgia is a longing for some point of time in the past and a romanticized notion that, said period was somehow better. Growing up in the 80's, I recall a great deal of 1950's nostalgia, a longing for a past was that thought to be more wholesome, with great milkshakes, jukeboxes, route 66 and Arthur Fonzarelli. 

The problem with this nostalgic view of the 1950's is that it was, as nostalgia always is, a veneer. It was a shallow notion of a different time, one of a blatant discriminatory and misogynistic pre-civil rights era America, that was no more pure and moral than times in which we live. The problem with passing this sort of nostalgia off as history, is that it is a revisionist retelling of history without context or consequence.

My son, who is 8, was taught about some history in school. The inherent trap of teaching history is that you cannot possible teach all of it, and that it is ever expanding. My son was taught cute facts about our founding fathers and the presidents. He had an idealized view of these historical figures, because he was only given a surface level nostalgic view of people and time periods. One day not so long ago, I watched tears well up in his eyes as he discovered that George Washington was a slave owner. Nobody in school had told him that fact, they told him only that George Washington was a hero, a president and a face on money.

It broke my heart to see my son's reaction to finding out this fact about our 1st president. The idealized nostalgic view of history he had learned was suddenly replaced by a hard truth. My son is African American, he like many others in this countries, has a family tree in which his ancestors his "heritage" includes names on a property sheet and the great genealogical brick wall that surfaces when attempting to access any census records prior to 1870. On a side note, I recommend to any white person who truly wants to become anti racist, study African American genealogy, understand the devastation and loss that is shown in records or lack thereof. It may change your paradigm from wondering "what is wrong with black America" to thinking "what a testament to the triumph, endurance and sheer will of African Americans, that they have done as well as they have."

It is a hard truth that so many men we practically worship as founding fathers, were what we would consider today to be human traffickers.  Yet today in the United States, there are countless streets, schools, churches, colleges and even states, named for these men. They are even on the very money that we are forced to use. 

History is full of very flawed men, guilty of inexcusable acts of cruelty. Yet so often, instead of honestly portraying these men as they were, we engage in a similar yet much darker revisionist nostalgia that gave rise to 50's restaurants and Happy Days. In so doing, we ignore the totality of history and instead cherry pick what we want to believe, often becoming apologists for our own fore bearers and ancestors.

In Richmond, we've seen the recent toppling of several confederate statues. I'll admit that I am inherently uncomfortable with statues and iconography that seeks to elevate the status of past leaders. I am wary of the heritage not hate argument that is floated so often in defense of the confederate flag and these confederate leaders. Yet my argument in what I see as a very shallow and dismissive defense of the confederacy, which admittedly also forms a part of my own heritage, is that hateful actions cannot be separated form heritage, they are a part of that heritage. This too is a form of nostalgic cherry picking.

It is not my job to define historical figures as bad or good, to do so would also be engaging in a form of revisionism that I am careful to avoid. Historical figures did what they did and were responsible for the totality of whatever legacy they left, yet so often our society and educators fail to present a complete version of a person. In the absence of historical accountability, nostalgia creates a convenient narrative that serves only to form a tradition of denial and create a false chocolate nougat covered coating, betraying that whatever lies beneath is a heaping pile of garbage flavored garbage. 

As I said, I am ever wary of statues and monuments to individual people at baseline, it is admittedly an strange perspective for a Catholic (a church whose own historical reckoning could launch 1000's of condemning blog posts). There are thousands of statues all over the world to people who don't deserve them. Statues are always erected with an agenda. One of the first acts of dictators is create statues of themselves, their agenda in doing so, is remarkably clear.

As for the confederate statues that adorn, or formally adorned Richmond. These statues were erected during the Jim Crow era, to honor the heroes of a false narrative, that narrative being the great Lost Cause, defeated in the War of Northern Aggression. Make no mistake, the Civil War was about the preservation of slavery.

The US Civil War was about states rights, to preserve slavery. It was about preserving the southern way of life, to continue allowing slavery. It was about the economy, that was dependent upon the forced labor inherent in slavery. 

It is bizarre to me that those who glorify the Confederacy and argue that it is their heritage (as it is mine), have such a difficult time understanding that the glorification of their confederate heritage is painful to the ancestors of slaves. This is prime captain obvious territory for me. It requires only a preschool level of empathy. It is also bizarre to me that the ancestors of confederates, as I am, so lovingly glorify the confederate cause.

Yes most of us whose ancestors fought for the Confederacy, have relatives who did not own slaves. At the time of war and in the antebellum period, most southern whites were poor and illiteracy was common. It stands to reason that many of the young men who fought for the confederacy simply did so because it was expected of them. There is also a revisionism to how these soldiers were ultimately remembered. 

The economic system of the antebellum south was abjectly devastating for African Americans. Yet this same economy was not beneficial for poor whites either. This system of slavery suppressed wages and opportunities for poor whites as well. Most of the soldiers who went to war for the confederacy were poor and like in most wars, consisted of poor kids fighting a rich mans war for the right to preserve their riches. So is it ultimately honoring our own white-southern heritage, to glorify these rich men? Is it a service to our ancestors to glorify these wealthy landowners who sent poor white boys out to fight a war to preserve the economic and cultural systems that benefited only the wealthy and powerful?

A full understanding of the events of history and historical figures, is to understand the complicated relationship we have with history and heritage. It is precisely for this reason that we need to think and deliberate, before we make history our hero. Ultimately our engagement in nostalgia undermines our historical understanding and the purpose of learning history in the first place, that purpose being to learn from our experiences, not to glorify and venerate the experiences of others. What we may find ultimately, is that when taken in totality, most of the people whose statues we erect and defend, are really not all that deserving of the veneration. 

Ultimately it all makes we think of a question to ponder. What is our reason for being here? Why are we here if not to learn and do better? As a Catholic it makes me think of the concept of purgatory. Purgatory is, among other things, a place of cleansing and learning. I wonder what these men, whose statues stand among the living, would think of themselves and their legacies now, in light of what they may have learned and who they may have become? 

No answers, just questions, just things that make me go hmm!

Blaming Antifa, meh...I got tea to sit back and sip on.

I've seen a lot of posts from people lately, blaming the organization Antifa for much of the "rioting" that has taken place. Conversely, I have seen several posts chastising those blaming Antifa for the "rioting," my response to it all-meh.

My personal belief, backed by continually mounting evidence, is that much of the "rioting" has been instigated by white supremacist groups and those with a mind toward trouble, perhaps including Antifa associates. I have no idea what the involvement of Antifa might be. I am not sure of the organization of Antifa, I am not a member, nor do I know anyone who is affiliated.

I am a member of Toastmasters International, this is really the only group that I pay dues to at this point in my life. I am on the roster and get regular communication from this organization on our organizational developments. We have by-laws, officers and an ordered method by which we conduct our meetings. I don't think that Antifa has any of these things, but again I am not a member. Perhaps they do have meeting dues and follow Robert's Rules of Order. (Caveat- I am in way authorized to speak on behalf of Toastmaster International.)

I am not okay with Antifa being blamed, if indeed they are being blamed unfairly. Nobody should be blamed unfairly for something they didn't do. However, since the protests are about racial injustice, and black people being killed by police officers and other white people who want to act like police officers, please indulge me to point out something that is glaringly obvious from where I sit. 

Being blamed for something you didn't do is kind of step 1 in feeling, to a degree possibly, what it might be like to be black. I don't have the time or life space left to point out the number of ways in which black people have been unjustly blamed, but it's staggering. 

Each incident in which an unarmed black person has been killed by police or police acting wypiple, has brought a peculiar method of blame to the person who has been killed. In many cases we are shown, not the professionally developed graduation photos of white perpetrators of crimes, but mug shots- if possible, from that one time that maybe the person was arrested. The logic train in these incidents is clear, they were arrested once, they were bad, of course they instigated the incident, they deserved to die.

If a mugshot from any point in the life of the black person who has been killed in an incident with police or police acting wypiple is unavailable, then they go to step 2, blame it on past or present history of drug use, usually marijuana. This explains it all, even if you were killed by an off-duty cop who busts into your own house and kills you for no reason and later gets a hug from a judge. He smoked marijuana, he was bad, it must have been his fault somehow, he deserved to die. Also I heard he might have stolen a chicken nugget from a white girl in the 1st grade.

Black people are expected to denounce the actions of other black people in order to be considered "safe black people." They are expected to denounce rioting, or to speak out against any form of violence perpetrated by other black people. Black people are expected to speak for other black people and the whole diverse population of black people who are always lumped together in the black community pile, when we discuss these things. 

There is never a dissection of the voting patterns of blacks without college degrees. There is never analysis of the differences in what constitutes legislative priority for urban as opposed to suburban or rural black people. There is only one black community, all expected to speak for each other, as if that were even possible.

When a wypiple commits a mass school shooting, or becomes a serial killer, I am never asked to personally condemn these things. It is assumed, from the no shit Sherlock archives, that I am not the named person and therefore have nothing to do with the incident. Black people do not get the same pass.

I have never once heard the term white on white violence used in media, even though the vast majority of violent crimes perpetrated against white people are by other white people. Yet for black people, black on black violence is yet another excuse for being more heavily policed and then naturally, more heavily killed by the police. 

Bringing up black on black violence in the light of police killings of black people is abjectly absurd. It has no bearing on the subject at all, even discussing the two issues together hints at an agenda, another excuse to justify why black people killed by police deserved their fate. Past arrest history, marijuana use, black on black violence, looking menacing, speaking with a tone, listening to loud music, being in the "wrong place at the wrong time," fitting a profile, looking at a white woman; all of these things have been used to justify why a black person deserved to die at the hands of police or police acting wypiple.

Here is the thing though. None of the above listed things justify being murdered. Let me draw for you an absurd illustration, hyperbole to point out the glaring inequity of the absurd situation. I frankly don't care if all black men except Leon committed crimes. This does not justify profiling, arresting and killing Leon. White people would not be okay if this logic were applied to us. 

We love to quote MLK when he said, "not by the color of our skin but by the content of our character." Some of the same people quoting this are the same people who like to talk about "black on black crime" when providing softball excuses for the murderous actions of police and police acting wypiple. Yet, this makes no logical sense. You want to be judged by the content of your character, who the F doesn't. Yet are you, generic you person, giving that same grace to others? It is a question for self reflection that needs to be asked everyday.

So in conclusion, I don't know how much Antifa has to do with the "riots" in our present environment. I don't know why some people choose to focus on Antifa, particularly those who have said nothing else about the protests or the reasons for the protests. Perhaps it's a red herring or another defender of the virtue of white fragility. These are things that make me go hmm.

So if you, generic you person, have blamed or defended Antifa, I'm not going to draw conclusions as to why you choose to put your focus there. Quite frankly, I'm not terribly interested in the subject. There are enough people talking about it, ya'll don't need me. I think that being blamed for something you haven't done might even make you a better ally, just sayin. Now I'm just gonna sit back and drink my tea, discuss among yourselves.

The Myth of Colorblindness- part one- Just say yes to Red Lobster Cheddar Biscuits

I used to live in Portland and when the topic of race would come up with one of Portland's many, many - very white people, I would often hear this lament in response to the glaring lack of diversity in their lives. "Well I wish I had black friends, but it's Portland so there aren't any black people here." My response was something like, well I also live in Portland and I have black friends, in fact there are close to 40,000 black people who live here, you telling me you couldn't find even one to be your friend?

"I didn't grow up around black people, I don't know how to talk to them." I heard so often. Yeah well I grew up thinking that Red Lobster was America's fanciest dining establishment and that rice pilaf was just rice with peas in it. We grow and we adapt boo. 

Every so often, I randomly find myself in an all white space. It feels unnatural to me after all these years, unnerving even and kind of makes me go WTF to myself. It isn't unnerving because I don't like white people, in fact, like so many would say in pitiful defense of prejudice, many of my best friends are white- I am one of them. It is unnerving because I see color and white is no longer the color I am most used to seeing in daily life. I like most people, or at least find them absurd enough to be humorous in some way, but I am also wary of many of the things I have heard expressed in some all white circles.

I am long past my days when I would have said something like my Portland friends, like "I don't see color" or to answer as human when asked about my own ethnicity. I see color, and so do you. I don't see color is a weak defense given to protect the the virtue of white fragility. We all see color, it is natural to see color. There is nothing wrong with seeing color. In fact to deny someone's color is to deny a part of what makes them human and to deny the experiences they may have had because of their color. 

Yes there is nothing wrong with seeing color, the wrong comes when we ascribe virtues to this color and when we denigrate this color. When we weaponize color, like that white lady who called the cops on a black man because he wanted her to leash her dog, I'll call her dog walking Donna. She saw color, and she knew she could weaponize it by leading with the phrase "Big Black Man." She probably said she doesn't see color either. I call bullshit. Or when people manipulate color, like saying "but some of my best friends are black." Or yeah well my black friend Mary said blah, blah, blah... Or switching to some 1972 Super Fly jive talk when encountering a black person who probably wasn't even alive in 1972.

There is, and I repeat louder for the folks in the back,  nothing wrong with seeing a person's color. It is a descriptor when used as such, but my challenge is this. When you are commenting on someone's color, why are you saying it? Dog walking Donna in the park knew exactly why she was stating the man's color when she called the police. I reference what I call the story in my earlier posts, she knows the story well and she knew how to use it, she knew how to weaponize and manipulate color for her own purposes. She knew her own power in that situation, even though she also knew that she was the one who was actually breaking the rules.

I grew up poor and white. I've been called poor white trash, I can say poor white trash. If you've never been called poor white trash and didn't grow up poor and white you shouldn't say it, it's offensive. This kids, is a much less weighted illustration of the premise behind the oft asked Caucasian question, "Why can they say the N word and I can't?" Let me be clear, I HATE hearing the N word in any context, with or without the - ER at the end, but there are some debates that are only for family, and in this instance, though I might be cool enough to invite to the cookout, I will not ever be black enough to use the N word. It is not up to me to define the use of that word because it has never been weaponized against me.

I do occasionally use the term PWT or Po White Trash. I don't like it, but it has been weaponized against me so it is mine to claim iffin I want to. I live outside the PWT sphere for the most part. Education and some economic status have brought me in contact with more sophisticated Caucasoids who may not understand the simple pleasure of Red Lobster cheddar biscuits. Sometimes I feel out of place with these folks too, they seem liberal and open sometimes, but so were barbecue Becky and dog walking Donna. One thing that I can say for PWT folks and redneck white people, which I shouldn't really say either, because it denotes certain rural roots, which I do not have, I am city white through and through. What I can say is this, we ain't no snitches. PWT ain't calling the police on nobody because shit, somebody in the house might have warrants.

I went through all that to say this. What we are really saying when we say "I don't see color" is "I can't handle my own feelings when someone talks about race." We've all been part of the story, we all know the story to some extent. Sure, I met some lovely people who were raised in rural Idaho and moved to Portland thinking it was Detroit. Maybe they weren't as exposed to the story. Yet kids, this life if for learning and we don't do that when we think we know everything. There have been many people who patiently absorbed my own ignorance in this electric thing call life. So with that said, here is some advice from Uncle J......

Do you see color, yes you do. You see color, and you should. The question, as I stated, and I don't like to repeat myself- so if I do- this shits important. Question yourself, challenge your assumptions, let every human being tell you their own story. See their color and see their humanity and know that it is all intrinsically linked.

So here is some more advice. Don't go around calling black men you don't know well brotha. Don't say "you go girl" or "talk to the hand" to a black woman- nobody's said that shit since 1993- stop it! No, you can't touch anyone's hair, if your so fascinated by hair texture, buy a damn wig and touch away. How do you talk to a black person, say hello and learn to listen. Finally, if you are at Red Lobster and they ask if you want another cheddar biscuit, say yes, that shits good.

Stay tuned for part 2 of the blog series I don't see color: A tale of Black Bob and White Bob.

1994 Part Deux- SAY HIS NAME!

A few years ago there was a hashtag created #sayhisname or #sayhername. It was created in response to the police killings of Eric Garner, Freddie Gray, Sandra Bland, Alton Sterling and a long, long list of other people who should still be alive but aren't. I'm not here to write about these killings or these human beings. What I am going to write is story of a bad thing that happened long before twitter, or facebook, when a # was still called a pound sign and you could still push that pound sign in a conveniently located phone booth.

The year was 1994, and his name was Edward Mallet. Edward Mallet was only 25 years old in 1994, not even a decade older than me, and much younger than I am today. He wasn't a famous actor or musician, but I will never forget his name.

On a hot late summer day in 1994 that I don't particularly remember, but will call hot because it was in Phoenix, Edward Mallet died. He didn't just die, but he was killed by the police, in what was later awkwardly labeled an accidental death that was the fault of the Phoenix police department. A death that would become the precipitating incident for the largest municipal lawsuit settlement in Phoenix's history.

I don't remember Edward Mallet's name because of the lawsuit, but because of the visual image that his death left in my young brain. I can still see this vision, a vision that can stop me in my tracks and bring tears right to the edge of my eyelids.

Edward Mallet was a double amputee, who like my 2nd grade teacher, had 2 prosthetic legs. On this August day in 1994 Edward Mallet couldn't breathe, and he never did again. During an altercation with police, they put him in a choke hold, lifting him out of his prosthetic legs and choking him until he died.

It was that image that I can't get out of head. That image of a man standing on legs, being literally lifted off of his own legs and gasping for his last breath. I remember Edward Mallet, because his last breath was the first time that I became aware of police officers killing an unarmed black man. It happened that hot August day, in my city, not from far from where I lived.

Over the years Edward Mallet's story has played out so many times that we become numb to it. I don't remember the names of everyone who has been a part of the #sayhis/hername movement, but I will always remember Edward Mallet.

I promised myself years ago that I would never forget his name. That no matter how many times this sad and pitiful story is played out, I will never forget the first time I heard it. Each new Eric Garner or George Floyd that enters the news cycle, always brings me back to thinking about Edward Mallet, and it always should.

Edward Mallet would not have died if he were white. He died because he was part of the same story that we have been told over and over again until it becomes the air we breathe.

We live in a time and place where not even the KKK can be counted on to admit to being racist. A time in which barbecue Becky's call the police on black people for existing in spaces where they are thought not to belong.

We like to act as if racism and white supremacy are aberrations, things that we are done with, inconvenient reminders of a past that we'd rather not remember. The thing is, that I can't deny what I have seen with my eyes.

Edward Mallet was like so many others, the victim of a lie, told in unconscious racial bias, that he was inherently dangerous and that his life was worth less than mine. Edward Mallet was a black man, and as such we have all been taught this lie, that he was inherently dangerous.

People don't like to think about their biases, their shadow selves, the small moments when the evil thoughts that don't align with the way that we see ourselves creep into our minds. Yet it is these small moments, cracks in our wall, that crawl through when we are stressed, cracks that are caused by the same tired story that we've been told over and over again, until these cracks become the air we breathe.

I don't believe in the inherent goodness or evil of humanity. We are good, we are evil, we are all things in between. What I do believe is this. We must push back on this story, the one that has us believing that some people are less than, that some colors are worse. We have to push back against this story in ourselves because it is so pervasive that it is always knocking, trying to get in. I have spent many years rooting this story out of my head, and though I never met him, Edward Mallet is like my guardian angel, standing watch and making sure that this tired story never again finds, in me, fertile ground in which to bury it's roots. #sayhisname

Stay tuned for 1994 part III- Things that might have actually happened in 1995

1994- Part 1

Picture it, South Phoenix, AZ-1994. 1994 wasn't the first time I noticed racism, or discrimination or how people with darker skin were treated differently. I was born in the late 70's, I had already seen Boyz in the Hood 12 times and vividly remember the LA riots in 1992, or more likely the episode of A Different World where Dwayne and Whitley got caught up in the riots while on vacation, or their honeymoon; hell if I remember,  it was a long time ago. 

No, 1994 was after I had lived in and gone to school in areas where the people looked different from me or read books by black intellectuals and had already developed a fondness for W.E.B Dubois. It was after Penny got burned with the iron, Prince Hakeem came to America and Calvin finally got a J-O-B. I already thirsted for knowledge and understanding and was a few years past the bitter cancellation of my 9 year old self's favorite TV show -227. I had already been a strange Caucasoid, on perennial race card probation, saved only by my love of dogs and my complete and utter inability to jump. I have an almost pathological need to understand, but in 1994, I longed to understand but still didn't know shit.

In 1994, Arizona was still reeling from the fallout of our failure to make MLK day a reality. We had been boycotted and skewered in the media, even had public enemy make a song about us, not their best if I'm being honest. 

I marched in 1994, the first of many MLK day marches that I would eventually join. My high school was in some ways the heart of Phoenix's black community, yes we have one! It was also at the crossroads between this small but established black community and a larger and more dispersed Latino community. Sometimes there was violence in the surrounding area and this violence usually manifested in the ranks of differing gangs, fighting over turf that neither of them actually owned.

In 1994 it is said that a gang dispute spilled over into the school and started what was widely reported as a race riot between African Americans and Latinos. I've always been suspicious of how the incident was reported but it was before google, youtube and the 24 hour news cycle. Nobody had cell phones and we still thought we were cool because we could send pages with number that looked like they were spelling balls or boobs.  What I do know of that day, what I can't un-know- is what I saw with my own eyes. There were helicopters, cops in riot gear liberally giving out free samples of mace and groups of scared and confused children running back and forth, trying to make sense of it all. 

The next day the news crews were there, they had already been reporting on the incident using words like riot and melee. Now they were there, asking to speak to some students. To gauge our first hand reactions to our strangest day, since that time there was water in the river and we all had to go home early (if you understand, you're probably from Phoenix). I was on the student council and because our ranking student council members were ironically participating in a camp developed to increase cultural awareness and understanding, they wanted to speak to me. 

I was an odd choice. The only caucasian male on the student council of a school that was decidedly uncaucasian in it's makeup. I don't remember what I said, but it was likely a somewhat less articulated version of the following. "Yeah there were some fights, but I doubt a similar event across town would have brought helicopters, riot cops and mace. I also doubt that you'll be here tomorrow to report on our good grades or our academic events or that you will be here on graduation day to celebrate our successes."

It was there that I took the red pill from Morpheus, that which would reveal an uncomfortable truth, from which I could not retreat. I learned that day in 1994, that it didn't matter how bad our so called riot was, or what might have happened on the other side of town. What mattered was that we fit the narrative of a story that they wanted to tell. A story that has been repeated so many times, in so many ways for so many years, that we are born believing in it, just as we are born needing air. A story so insidious that we are taught it without even knowing. A story that we unconsciously believe without ever having questioned. That story is that some are better than others, that some are more valuable, and that some matter less than others.

Follow me for 1994- Part 2

No Offense, the Subtle Art of Marginalization

I operate in a world where, outside of a work context, I can go months without having significant interaction with others of my predominate ethnic group- (aka-white people).  I have long surrounded myself with diverse people from diverse backgrounds and am thus quite comfortable in situations where I am the only person who looks like me, most of the time.

I was at a party once a few years ago. I was the only person in the room who was not African American. At one point in the party somebody used the "N" word and then turned to me and said "no offense."  On a side note, in my thinking, I am probably the last one in the room who should have received an apology, as pathetic as that apology was.

Yes, I abhor the "N" word in any context, regardless of the melanin level of who said it and whether or not the word ends in ER or A. What I also abhor is when someone says something and then turns to say "no offense."

To me, saying no offense yields only two logical reactions, both result in the taking of offense. The first reaction is to think, if you knew it was offensive why did you still say it? The second reaction is to think, no I wasn't particularly offended, but now that you pointed out the offensive nature of the statement, I probably should be.

This happened to me again last week. Someone in the room said something about a particular white person or a group of white people. I don't remember because I wasn't offended or particularly impacted by the comment. The person who made the comment then turned to me and said "no offense." Except by this time, though specifically told not to be offended, I actually was.

The comment didn't bother me. What bothered me is that up until that moment I was just a human being sharing space with other human beings. After being told to not be offended, I was suddenly and completely reminded that I was, to paraphrase Sesame Street, the one of these things that is not like the other.

This wasn't a conversational moment in which differences were discussed. That would be called dialogue. This was a conversation halt, in which the one person most different in the situation was put on display for all to see. That is called marginalization.

Marginalization is to relegate or confine to a lower or outer limit or edge, as of social standing (dictionary.com). Marginalization can be personal (like in my example) or institutional.

Institutional marginalization can occur within the context of racism (such as redlining or segregation), classism (like relegating poorer people to less desirable parts of town, see segregation), ableism (like relegating disabled people to live in subsidized housing in these same less desirable parts of town, see segregation). It can also occur in families or in groups of individuals, like in my example. The end result of all incidences of marginalization, is that they suck.

Before I stray too far from my actual point into writing about oppression, which believe me, I can. I will say that I see value in having had the experience of being marginalized. These experience, these feeling, are part of why I strive to be observant of instances where injustice is present, not that my example presents an instance of injustice (yet another blog post that I would be all to happy to write).

Shared personal experiences help us to recognize the complete humanity in others who are different. Sadly many people do not seek these experiences.  Over time, because I observe and listen, I have developed an ability to move freely among different groups of people and in multiple contexts. Yet the older I get, the less comfortable I am in uni-cultural environments, regardless of who comprises the majority culture.

Back to the point though. There are things that many of us say because we think we are being nice. No offense is one of these things. Unfortunately, saying something that might be offensive and then covering it with, no offense, doesn't make you nice. It makes you an asshole.

Posting Political Articles to Facebook and Why it Sucks to Be a Pisces

As a rule I don't tend to post many articles or memes on subjects of politics or social justice. Sometimes I think that because I don't, I must be a person cowering in the corner afraid to say anything controversial. Yet this is a gut reaction to seeing other friends who post 20 articles a day and never leave any doubt as to where they stand on anything.

Many years ago, as a good Pentecostal child, I thought that I wasn't courageous for Jesus because I didn't stand in parks yelling at people and passing out tracts, politely pointing out who was and was not going to hell. Over the years I learned that most people think that park yellers are crazy and not particularly effective in their um, craft. Yet I remained somewhat conflicted. This conflict is mostly because I am a pisces and we are pretty much always conflicted about everything. Yet the good side of that, is that we easily see issues from multiple angles and often act as a bridge between dogmatic individuals, who love to readily break everything and everyone down into exactly 2 always opposing camps. So yeah, it kind of sucks to be a pisces, but then it's cool and then it sucks again.

So while I continue to chase my fish tail, let me offer a few reasons as to why I personally, as a proud piscean (sort of), don't (normally) post (many) articles and memes on social media (facebook- I'm too old for Instagram).

1. I prefer to blog (when I have the time and am between shows on Netflix) for a variety of reasons. A blog allows for deeper dissection of issues. Short blurbs such as status updates do not support any sort of analysis. When I hear another persons opinion on things, I don't just want to know what they are thinking. Chances are, because people are often predictable, I can already pre-determine what opinion almost everyone I know has on any given issue. What I want to know is how someone came to an opinion. What are the supporting arguments for taking a certain position? What personal experiences have led to the formation of a certain opinion? And ultimately, can a given argument stand up to logical scrutiny? I, for one, like to make sure that I know what I am talking about.

2. I prefer action to opinion. I know too many people who espouse ignorant and illogical views, yet do very kind things for others. I also know people who are always first in line to point out injustice, yet take an armchair view when it actually comes to doing anything for anyone else. I tend to think that I am more effective when I operate within my sphere of influence. Rather than casting a wide everybody net, to reach those who probably aren't listening, and are unlikely to change their mind anyway.

3. I don't think it is necessarily an effective tool for bringing about social change. I have many Facebook friends who are notorious for controversial posts and their ensuing arguments. Each time it is the same people taking the same predictable positions, often in contrast to the other same people who always take the opposite position. The rest of us, after awhile, just scroll past to see what people are having for dinner and to look at pictures of cats, and/or children. I am also not all that convinced that my opinion matters much to many people. Nor am I convinced that I have any more power to effect change than anyone else that I know.

However, I have a great many friends who would disagree, or who really just like to argue. I don't. At this point in my life I am perfectly content with being a person who doesn't enjoy arguing. If you, among the 11 people that read my blog, do enjoy arguing, do you. I will sit in my own little corner of the world doing what I can, taking respite in Netflix when the daily reality of life becomes to much to bear.